Azkaban
by Platinum Express
Summary: He should have kept his temper. He shouldn't have broken her heart. The fates were laughing at him. BlaiseHermione, one-shot, rated M for smut and language.


**Azkaban**

Obviously, when Blaise saw her after all those years he did not recognize her.

He remembered a painfully scrawny girl, and lots of brown hair and an annoyingly crooked smile. He remembered shoulders that sagged under the weight of books, and an annoying glimmer in her eyes that seemed to personify rules. It was enough to aggravate any mortal man. And Blaise was never renowned for his pleasant temper.

But the years had tamed her, it seemed, and clad in her better clothes and a higher social position.

The events leading up to their meeting could almost be called predestined. Fate, being the humorous bugger that it was, set off their epic love story by forcing Blaise into killing a man.

Later on, he wondered why he had done it, and the only explanation he could think of was that he had been blazingly angry. He had been drunk, as well, and that only served to provoke the fumes of his temper. The man- boy, rather- his name was Dennis Creevey. He had been several years below Blaise at Hogwarts, and had developed his brother's annoying habit of carrying a camera wherever he went. Keen to fine-tune these talents, he had been hired by the Daily Prophet, and placed under the tutelage of one Rita Skeeter, well known for her vindictive quill and ruthless ability to rape reputations.

Seeing an ex-Death Eater like Blaise Zabini in a pub had been a dream come true for young Creevey. Blaise had been with familiars- most noticeable Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, and they had been tossing back vodka with determination and deftness. When he looked back on it, Blaise decided that the picture _would_ have looked good on the front page. So called reformed Death Eaters- sitting a cheap pub and drinking alcohol. It had a certain dark glamour that Skeeter endorsed and the Prophet swallowed with relish.

But Creevey was not a connoisseur and had made the terrible mistake of stumbling into the pub, camera glued to his face, mid-flash.

Responses had been varied. Malfoy had yelled out in shock, and spilled his beer. Nott had instinctively dived under the table to hide his pockmarked face. Blaise had whipped out wand and pointed it at Creevey's trembling, pale face.

'I'm sorry!' Childish hands, raised to his face.

'What were you doing?'

'I- I-'

'Tell him the fucking truth, Creevey.' That had been Draco. He was annoyed, the beer had spilled all over his brand new Parisian shirt.

'Fine!' the gingery boy raised his hands in defeat. 'I was taking a picture, for the Prophet.'

Blaise swallowed, disbelievingly. 'Of us? Why on earth?'

The boy sneaked him a look that was both smug and defensive. 'It would have looked good, wouldn't it?' Oh yes, there was a sneer in his voice. 'Death Eaters- so called reformed. You looked pretty thuggish, the three of you drinking like that.'

A heated color had begun to rise in Blaise's face. Draco noticed the warning signs.

'Get out of here, Creevey!' he said, harshly.

'Give me the camera.' Said Blaise. His voice was cold.

But apparently, the aforementioned comic Fates decided to imbibe in Dennis Creevey a smug confidence, which did not belong in his rickety puberty-reeking body.

'The camera's _mine_,' he said, with a glimmer of spirit. '_I _took these pictures, and _I _will make sure they make the Daily Prophet, front page. The public has a right to know, you know, about what you _criminals_ do you in spare time.'

'Drinking's a crime, is it?' Draco asked, loudly.

'It's all about perception,' Creevey said, preening. 'The public will have things to say, you know. If I get just the right attitude into the article, you'll be _ostracized_. There won't be a thing left for you, Malfoy. And neither for Zabini here, and his whore mother.'

He paused for breath, heaving excitedly, his eyes flashing drunkenly at them and Blaise's killing spell hit him square in the chest.

His body slumped over and rolled under a table.

Draco groaned, and raised a hand to his temples.

'Blaise- you and your _godforsaken_ temper.'

Blaise put his wand back into his pocket. 'I'll pay the bill,' he said, impassively.

'Do you know what you've _done?'_ Draco did not like leaving conversations unfinished. 'I thought we needed to be _careful_, what with the whole public stigma on us. Killing a kid reporter does not qualify under community service!'

Blaise put money down on the table.

'What do I do with the body?' he wondered.

Nott felt that this was a good time to re-enter the discussion. He crawled out from under the table.

'Run for it,' he advised. 'I guess we can cover for you, for a while.'

Blaise snorted. 'I'm not an idiot,' he told him, curtly. He was silent for a while. 'I'm leaving. Draco- call the Ministry and inform of them of what's happened.'

'Do I- do I tell them who did it?'

'In so many words, yes. I present them the body with my compliments.'

'But where are you going?' pressed Nott.

Blaise yanked his coat from the dingy closet in the bar, and pulled it over broad shoulders. 'I'm going to find myself a solicitor.'

* * *

His mother had always been understanding. She didn't question his actions, merely delivered a soft reprimand against his temper, and gave him a small card.

'She's probably the best you could find, Blaise,' she said, seriously. 'But don't ruffle her the wrong way, will you?

Blaise submissively promised, and glanced at the card. The name seemed vaguely familiar. In fact, he was sure he had heard him somewhere. But being trusty that the fates weren't too sadistic with their approach towards human life, he made out to the address indicated with very little apprehension, and ignorance of the storm that was brewing out of sight.

The building was small, and clipped and very professional. The reception was likewise furnished. It suggested to one that the person who lived here was assembled from clockwork, and did not believe in god. Behind the desk sat a reedy receptionist with a pince-nez and singular lack of charm.

'May I help you, sir?'

This Blaise decided, was definitely old English school. She had probably passed with flying colors.

'I would like to meet Ms. ahem- Granger.'

'Do you have an appointment?' The cold gray eyes signified the fate he must approach if he didn't.

'No, but it's urgent.' He said. The gray eyes were not impressed.

'So are all of them,' she informed him, coldly. 'But I'm afraid that if you don't have an appointment-'

Her chilly voice trailed off, and at that moment a frosted-glass door with a brass name-plaque, that stood beside them, opened vigorously and someone tumbled out.

Blaise glanced critically at the name-plaque, and then at the girl who had just executed the perfect example of an unorthodox entry. So this was Hermione Granger. He was almost certain he had never seen her before. She was dressed professionally in a light gray pant suit, and wore her hair shorter than most. It touched her ears and curled intimately around her neck, and swung forward in a graceful sweep that he recognized to be the latest style to rage the city. To her credit, it was a warm, chestnut color, tinted by the sun. Her eyes were clear and slanted, her face slightly freckled, and at the current instant, her mouth was nothing short of petulant.

'Joanne!' she exploded, impetuously. 'I thought you ordered the man from the garage to fix the damned door!'

Gray-Eyes shifted uncomfortably.

'I'm sorry, Ms. Granger, he said he was unavailable.'

'Unavailable, my foot,' the girl muttered, bitterly. 'He's just unwilling to pay me a visit is all. I think you'll agree, Joanne, that it's very unprofessional of him.'

Gray-Eyes coughed, this time. 'With all due respect, Ms. Granger, you're treatment of him last time he was here-'

'What did you do to him?' asked Blaise, unable to keep the smile off his face.

The girl turned haughtily to him, and then her features adjusted to register puzzlement. She surveyed him critically for a moment.

'I've seen you somewhere before, haven't I?'

Blaise was slightly taken aback. 'I don't think so. My name is Zabini.'

Instantly, her eyes cooled. 'Blaise Zabini?'

'Do I know you?' He ran his eyes over the hair, the freckled face, curiously.

'Apparently, you've forgotten,' she said, impassively. 'My name is Hermione Granger. I was at Hogwarts as well, you know.'

He looked blank.

'Gryffindor-' she prompted. 'Your year.'

Suddenly, his brow cleared. Of course. So that was where he had seen that nose before.

'Faithful sidekick to Harry Potter and the Corporation of Heroes,' he said, with a courteous incline of his head. 'How could I forget?'

Her face flushed at these words.

'Fancy seeing you here after so long, Zabini.'

'Fate,' said Zabini, unaware that those that he addressed were chuckling above him, 'Has a funny way of dealing with things. Actually, I'm here because I need help.'

She looked wary. 'What kind of help?'

'Of a professional kind,' he explained.

Here, Gray-Eyes felt it was necessary to elaborate. 'He came here calling for you, Ms. Granger,' she explained, peevishly. 'But I was forced to deny him since he had no appointment.'

Hermione turned annoyed eyes. 'Joanne, I've been free all morning, does an appointment really matter?'

Gray-Eyes snapped her mouth closed and turned away. She obviously felt betrayed.

'Come into my office,' Hermione said, turning back to him. 'I can't promise I'll take up your case, whatever it is, but I'll definitely listen to you.'

She did. Listen to him, that was. Blaise had a terrific memory, and put down all his cards on the table with an attention to detail that was normally associated with her. He told her of their night out, Creevey's grand entrance, and the hot words exchanged, before the irreparable- but apparently, not regretted- twirl of his wand.

Hermione listened to him very carefully. At the end of his little saga, she put down the plume she had been fiddling with, and met his eyes squarely.

'Are you telling me,' she asked, coldly. 'That you killed Dennis without a second thought for speaking ill of your mother, and now you don't regret it.'

'Yes.' Blaise confirmed.

Hermione's plume stroked the edge of her chin. 'Okay,' she said, 'I'm just trying to clarify here. I don't mean to be personal, but your mother does have a reputation, doesn't she?'

His eyes narrowed. 'Thin ice, Granger.'

'It's part of my job. He spoke a truth and you got angry and killed him. That might be manslaughter, best case, but since it wasn't in self-defense, or an accident, I think it would clarify for cold-blooded murder.'

'But not pre-planned,' Blaise pointed out.

Her brows raised. 'Can you prove that?'

Oh. She had him there.

'Maybe not,' he countered. 'That's your job, isn't it?'

She put the plume down again. Apparently, she was very fidgety.

'Blaise,' she said, coolly. 'Let me get something very straight for you. I am not going to go to court and lie. I'm not going to tell them it didn't happen.'

For a second, she thought he looked hurt.

'There will be no need for that,' he responded, icily. 'I have already send Draco with the body- with my compliments, by which I mean for the Ministry- I trust they have the analytic ability to do so- should realize that I and I alone was responsible for his death.'

'You sent the body with your compliments?'

This time he noticed that the brows she raised were faintly arched, like the wings of a bird.

'Yes.'

'Good that you turned yourself in. Bad choice of wording.'

'Draco will do the needful when it comes to glib presentation.'

'We might be able to work around that, then.' She mused.

'Do I take it that you accept my case?'

* * *

After Hermione accepted his case, events began to move fast. The Fates were impatient. They demanded a climax.

The Ministry of Magic was quick with their demand of justice. Hearings were organized, and Blaise was alerted of the consequences he must face if he failed to meet them. He brought the letter to Hermione, who read it critically.

'They're angry,' she remarked. 'But they're also delighted.'

'Sorry?'

'It's a perfect opportunity for them, Blaise. No offense, but you cronies of the Dark Lord, or whatever the hell you call yourself, are not favorites of today's times. If they can throw you ceremoniously into Azkaban, it's a day well-spent for them.'

'Which is what they're going to do to me,' he ventured.

'I make no promises. You deserve it.'

'You wound me, Hermione.'

'Do you know, we have a perfect name for you in legislative lingo,' Hermione said, meditatively.

'Am I that famous?'

'The Perfect Pre-emptive. That's what you are. You know what a pre-emptive is, of course?'

'A cow led to slaughter so that others may run?'

'Precisely. Perfect- not because of your looks, Blaise, don't preen- but because you feel no remorse. A judge's delight. He can haul you into a clink without a blink of an eye, because to all intents and purposes you're begging for it.'

'Do you expect me to mourn Creevey?'

'I've only ever expected that from a true human,' she said, soberly. Of course, she was the queen of insulting insinuations.

But nonetheless, she helped him. She went over that night, made notes, gave him pointers on how to behave, and accompanied him to his first hearing with an inkling of hope. The judge was rough, the jury critical. But as Hermione said, his frank confession did hold water. And true or not, people could sympathize with the slur hurled against his mother.

'Though,' noted Prosecution, in a reedy voice. 'Insults do not justify the killing of innocents in the blink of an eye.'

'With all due respect,' Blaise said, curtly, 'Only incompetence would cause it to take longer.'

The jury sucked in its breath, and Hermione groaned.

He took her for dinner that night, and she severely reprimanded him.

'I don't know what you were thinking,' she said, sourly. 'The judge was horrified. _You're living on borrowed time, Blaise.'_

He did not reply. He was looking at her dress, and wondering where she had got it from. It was, as far as he could see, made of something creamy and silky, and had a funny string somewhere below her bosom. For a womanizer, Blaise had always been hopeless with woman's fashion.

He had an eye for makeup, though, and recognized Hermione's as expertly applied. The faint glimmer on her lips, and the soft shade above her eye seemed to blend exquisitely with her skin.

'Stop eyeing me.' She commanded.

He smiled lazily. 'Are you done scolding?'

'Not quite. Blaise, you have to change your attitude if you want the court to look at you differently. You're behaving like a- like a _bullock!'_

Blaise laughed, and reached over the table to grasp her hand. 'Remind me to educate you on the art of profanity. That was weak and ineffective to the extreme.'

'Blaise-.'

'More wine?' He poured it out for her.

She remained silent throughout dinner. The wine had mulled her. When he drove her back to her apartment, she told him to come up.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. 'Surely this is too fast?'

'I want to talk to you, Blaise.'

The statement carried potential, but when he was firmly ensconced in her living room, her words became legislative once again.

'Your next hearing is in four days,' she told him, seriously. 'I want you to understand that flippant remarks will get you nowhere except Azkaban.'

'Understood.'

'Now listen to me- here's the card I'm going to play. We'll bring your mother, ask her to sit in the pews. Then, we rasp on the comment he made. If your mother can look suitably upset-'

'She is the queen of melodramatic tears.'

'Perfect. The jury will sympathize. And then, I want you to give her comforting and meaningful looks across the courtroom, do you understand me?'

He looked a little surprised. 'Smart plan.'

'It touches sentiment in the raw. A mother, slighted, her son defending him- albeit in a somewhat controversial manner.'

'You should have been in Slytherin,' he said, admiringly.

She shuddered.

But the plan was executed beautifully. His mother, being the dramatic that she was, rose magnificently to the occasional. She dressed in somber black, and wore pensive pearls at her throat. When Hermione addressed Prosecution, she stressed on the uncalled for comment, and Mrs. Zabini- now Mrs. Bessemer- was struck with a pallid face, and quivering lips. Soon, this developed into red-rimmed eyes and occasional sniffles.

Blaise's acting contained no fault, either. The comforting looks he sent his mother were subtle and yet noticed by all. The jury sighed.

'Mrs. Bessemer,' said the judge, 'Would you like a moment to compose yourself?'

'I- I think I should leave,' whispered the mother, distraught. 'I'm so sorry, Blaise, darling.'

And she fled. The jury wilted. Hermione beamed.

Blaise kept his temper, and this time the hearing went well. When he took her out to dinner- it having become a standard procedure- she was all praise.

'That was magnificent!' she said, admiringly.

He smiled and squeezed her finger. 'Good plan, Herms.'

'Yes, but you acted it to perfection.' She sipped some wine. 'Blaise- I think we might have a chance, after all.'

Blaise looked tenderly down at her. The differences in height compelled that.

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'The jury was favorably impressed,' she said, tenderly. 'We might get off, after all.'

Blaise smiled. 'You mean no Azkaban.'

'Yes.'

He laughed, and touched the tip of her nose. 'Herms, I always knew that.'

'You have too much faith in me,' she protested.

'Fate.' He said, solemnly.

It began to rain around the restaurant.

This time, when he came upstairs, she didn't scold him. She poured him some wine.

'Your friends won't like it,' he warned.

She looked indignant. 'Do you think they rule my life?'

'It might come to a matter of choice.'

'They would never ask me to choose between them and you.'

'And if they did?'

'I don't know.'

Her reply, he decided, was stupendous progress for a month, and he responded by pulling up her chin and kissing her decisively on the mouth. The kiss simmered with potential and promise. Hermione wrapped her arms around her neck.

'All right, ex-con,' she muttered. 'Let's see what you've got.'

Bedding her was another step in their relationship, which fell into a comfortable synchrony with the rest of the formalities. She was warm and responsive, and Blaise found himself roused to a pitch of pleasure, one he had insofar not experienced. When they were done, she lay down beside him, and he gently stroked her hair, running his fingers over her temples, and whispering in her ear. It was intimate and close, and both felt what was developing between them.

'When this case is over,' Blaise whispered, in her ear. 'We'll leave the city.'

'We will?'

'We'll build a house in Worcestershire,' he murmured, between kisses. 'Just you and me and the country. There'll be a stream, near the house.'

'And flowers,' said Hermione. 'Lots of flowers.'

'We'll have a lilac tree and some kittens and a dog, if you like.' Blaise continued. 'Our own secret little heaven.'

'Will we be married?' Hermione asked, curiously.

He lifted his head and looked thoughtfully down at her.

'You know what?' he murmured. 'I think we will.'

And so he bought her a ring the next day. It was a surprise- one that she had not expected, since she thought Blaise to be above such formalities. As far as rings went, it was pretty and to her surprise, conservative. Simple gold band- a diamond, twinkling up at her with promises of a bright future. He slipped it onto her finger, and kissed her.

'And here's to many anniversaries,' he whispered, his eyes glinting. She smiled up at him.

The days before the third hearing were spent in their own little heaven. They stayed in her apartment, and roused themselves from bed occasionally to go over paperwork. Blaise cooked wonderfully, and surprised her with breakfast in bed and an assortment of wines and liquors she had never even heard of. He was the perfect fiancé, she decided, spending time with her and perpetually reminding her that she belonged to him.

'You're mine,' he muttered, interspersing with heated kisses.

'You've mentioned.' She was so sarcastic.

'I want you to say it.'

'Alright, Mr. Zabini.' She bit his lip. 'I'm yours.'

Towards the hearing, they spent more time on the paperwork though. Blaise's mother promised to come and do her teary act again. Blaise himself ran over the words he would have to say.

Fate held promise, apparently.

Hermione sat in her bench, and watched him speak, feeling a flash of pride. He articulated perfectly, showing unreal remorse, and defending himself from the ruthless claws of pseudo-justice. His mother whimpered in the pews, and many of the jury members sent her sympathetic looks.

Prosecution stood up.

'Mr. Zabini- we would like to go back to the comment uttered by the deceased that night.'

Mrs. Bessemer sniffled.

'We believe he referred to your mother as- and I quote- a whore.'

Hermione noticed Blaise's knuckles tighten imperceptibly. Mrs. Bessemer watched, wide-eyed.

'You reacted strongly, to that comment, as was expected. However, we would like to challenge you on one point- do you deny, as under having taken an oath to honesty- that the accusation was untrue.'

Hermione closed her eyes, but sensed Blaise's anger.

'Meaning?' he asked, tightly.

Prosecution remained calm. 'Allow me to clarify. I am asking you whether it is untrue that your mother has entertained sexual relationships with no few number of men.'

Hermione expected the outcome. She saw the house in Worcestershire, and the lilac tree and kittens all fall down into a large heap of dust.

In the end, all that could be said of Blaise's outburst, was that it was short. The judge called in security, who cuffed him and took him away before he injured or caused bodily harm to anybody present. His mother trembled in her seat, and Hermione looked dejectedly at the bar of her bench.

The jury was taken away to an adjoining room, to make up their mind. Blaise was kept away. It was deemed prudent to ensure the safety of the members of the court by denying him direct entry. When the jury filed in again, the court room became oddly still and silent. Hermione blinked away the tears that were threatening to creep into her eyes. She waited while the jury seated themselves, fingers crossed in prayer.

Someone stood up and cleared his throat.

'Honorable judge- members of the jury as myself…' he gestured around him. 'Have spent time considering the murder of Dennis Creevey. We feel it was both uncalled for and inappropriate. The accused- Mr. Zabini- has a notorious past, and a singular lack of ruth.'

_Not true_, thought Hermione, _he can be very kind when he wants to. He can be very gentle._

'We feel that the accused is a definite threat to society.'

She closed her eyes. The Perfect Pre-emptive.

'…Hereby sentencing him to three years in Azkaban.'

The judge's gavel came down with ringing finality, and sealed Hermione's fate.

They let her see him once, after that. While the paperwork was being sorted out, he was kept in a private cell in the Ministry. She was sent to see him with two armed escorts. Once outside the door, they offered to come in with her.

'No thank you,' she whispered. 'I can handle this on my own.'

'Ma'am,' one of the guards said, reluctantly, 'We feel it's our duty to inform you that he's not assumed to be mentally stable. He's prone to violent outbursts, you know.'

'It's okay,' Hermione said. 'It's fine. I want to see him alone.'

They had to let her go then, shrugging with disapproval. They unlocked the door and told her she had half an hour.

When she saw him inside, she could feel her heart shattering into several little pieces. He was sitting in a corner, dressed in dark, tattered robes. He looked up at her, and she saw his tear-streaked face.

'They brought you,' he said, with a small smile. 'I was so afraid they wouldn't.

She didn't say anything, but crossed the room and sat down beside him. He leaned his head on her shoulder, and she stroked her fingers through his hair. The wedding ring he had given her glinted on one finger.

'I'm so sorry, Hermione,' he whispered, 'This is all my fault.'

Her throat constricted. 'Don't say that,' she chided, softly. 'It's not- it's not your fault.'

'It is, of course,' he said, ruefully, 'It's my temper, my godforsaken temper. Draco always warned me I would regret it.'

'Do you?' she had buried her nose in his hair, and was inhaling the soft smell.

'Not till now,' he lifted his head and kissed her chin. 'I don't even regret killing Creevey, because that brought me to your door. But how I- how I wish I hadn't lost my temper with the damn Prosecution.'

'They provoked you,' she nuzzled his cheek.

'I know,' he winced, bitterly. 'On purpose, of course. I should have seen it. But fool that I was…'

'You're not a fool,' she said, quietly.

He looked tenderly down at her. She suddenly remembered their second night out.

'_Blaise- I think we might have a chance, after all.'_

They had been at some fancy restaurant. She remembered looking over the table, and whispering his name softly. He had looked incredibly handsome that night. The candlelight, splayed across his chiseled features, the tender look in his eyes as he gazed at her.

'I'm going to miss you,' he whispered, lifting her hand and kissing the palm.

'_Herms, I always knew that.'_

'_You have too much faith in me,'_

'You had too much faith in me,' she murmured.

He shook his head- leaned down and said, 'No, you had too much faith in me. I didn't keep my temper.'

She fought back tears. 'You know that I don't blame you.'

'Hmm,' he murmured, holding her hand against his cheek. She felt the roughness of stubble. 'I know it wasn't just my dreams that I shattered today,' he said, quietly, 'They were yours as well.'

'They haven't been shattered,' she insisted. The tears were pricking around the edges of her eyes now. One slid down her cheek. Blaise brushed it away with the pad of his thumb.

'Aren't they?' he inquired. 'Our house in Worcestershire? The kittens and the wedding? It's all just Azkaban now.' He looked wistful. 'Just a dream…'

Hermione shook her head, firmly.

'Not a dream,' she whispered, 'It's a reality.'

Someone tapped on the door. One of the guards called, 'Ms. Granger- your time's up.'

Blaise's fingers tightened over her hand. Her tears were falling thick and fast now.

'They're taking me tomorrow,' Blaise murmured. 'I'll be gone. There's no coming back, then.'

'There is,' she said, stubbornly.

Outside, the guard pounded on the door again. 'Ms. Granger! I'm going to have to insist that you come, now.'

Her small hand closed over his. The wedding ring he had given her glinted on her fourth finger.

'You might be going away for three years, Blaise,' she whispered, kissing his cheek. 'But I promise you that when you come back, I'll be waiting.'


End file.
